


Together, As the Moon with the Tide

by inkncoffee



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017), PKNA - Paperinik New Adventures
Genre: Death of minor characters, Donald has PTSD, Donald/Odin if you squint, Family, Gen, Growing Up, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:48:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22911973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkncoffee/pseuds/inkncoffee
Summary: Family sticks together, and Della and Donald are more DellaandDonald, DonaldandDella, the Duck Twins, then they are anything else.A story of identity, loss, family, and discovering the important things in life, told through the life and adventures of the Duck Twins pre-Della on the moon.
Relationships: Della Duck & Donald Duck & Scrooge McDuck
Comments: 23
Kudos: 155





	1. Chapter 1

Donald and Della Duck are five years old when their mother, wild and fierce as the sun itself, drags her family away from the infamous money bin, her temper hot enough to light a thousand fires, to terrorize an army of men – and it has, on occasion, but for once . . . it's not enough.

It's not enough to melt the ice holding fast around her brother's heart.

Donald and Della Duck are five years old when Scrooge McDuck makes their aunt cry, breaks their mother's heart, finally drives an insurmountable ice pick between the last remaining members of the McDuck clan.

Donald isn't old enough to understand, isn't aware enough to truly grasp the gravity of the situation, the extent of his mother's ire, the depth of his aunt's despair – but he knows what uncle is throwing away. Scrooge is throwing his family away. And Donald resent him for it with every downy feather on his young, impressionable head.

He can't understand the gravity of this moment, and he's too young to properly remember the occasion when he gains the experience to understand it, but this he understands: his uncle is abandoning them.

Donald comes by his temper honestly. Nobody hurts his family and gets away with it. The name uncle means nothing to the fiery duckling when the owner reduced Aunt Matilda to tears and forced his mother onto the street.

"Coward," Donald croons and kicks Scrooge in the backside as hard as he can. Then he's out the door and down the hall as fast as his little legs can carry him, Della reaching for her twin and pulling him after her as the sound of Scrooge's pained squawks echo down the hall.

Scrooge McDuck doesn't chase his family out of the money bin that morning. He doesn't follow in the hot pursuit of vengeance, doesn't race after them begging for forgiveness.

"Miserable ol' man," Della declares, holding her twin's hand so tight it would hurt except this is Della, this is family, this is Donald's family.

"Aw, phooey, who needs him," Donald angrily agrees and they rush to catch up with their family.

Della takes their mother by the hand and Donald takes Aunt Matilda's. Aunt Matilda is still sniffling, tears running freely down her beautiful feathers, and Hortense is redder than the morning sun, but the women hold fast to the children.

Donald and Della Duck are five years old when the last of the clan McDuck abandons his family and lets his sisters walk out of his life.

Donald and Della are seven years old when the school calls their mother, whispering poison about speak impediment, needs therapy, developmentally challenged, will need to hold him back a year—

Donald is seven years old and his voice isn't like his twin's, isn't like the other children at school. Words get caught in his throat, garbled between his tongue and teeth. It doesn't matter how careful he rolls the letters around, how gently he holds the sounds between his teeth, when they come spilling forth from his beak, they jam together in a nearly unintelligible cacophony.

He sits in the living room, his back presses against the wall as his mother squawks indignantly into the phone. He sees her shadow on the kitchen floor, her feet pounding up and down as she leaps in place, her fury boiling over as she rages until her voice spirals into a nearly unintelligible croon like her son.

"So he's a little different!" his mother screams. "We'll get him the stinkin' therapy! But where dae ye get aff tellin' mah boy he's stupid! Mah son is smarter than th' smarties, dae ye hear mae?"

Donald closes his eyes. The angrier Hortense grew, the more pronounced her accent became. Della and Donald turned it into a game of sorts sometimes, like the impertinent imps their aunt claimed them to be. Who could make mom's accent the thickest? they'd laugh.

But there was nothing funny about the thick Scottish drawl that tore through the Duck household now.

"Whit dae ye mean you're holdin' him back? He doesnae need tae be held back!"

There is a noise at the other end of the phone, but his mother's squawks drown it out.

"Ye guid fur naethin'! We'll gie him the therapy! Gie us until Christmas, he'll be top ay th' class!"

His mother curses and screams down the phone, making promises Donald knows he can't keep. Top of the class by Christmas? He can do math, he can do science, he can write his letters . . . but Ms. Fowl requires the class to read out loud. His stupid tongue will never make the correct sounds, not by Christmas, not by Easter . . . .

Donald hangs his head in shame, temper shimmering in the back of his head, words that refuse to form bouncing around his skull until the buzzing makes his very being tremble, and he leaps to his feet, needing to get away, to escape, to—

And suddenly Della is there. She stands before her twin, eyes blazing. Where Donald is explosive energy, anger bubbling perpetually just beneath the surface, Della is cool. She is calm and collected and sharper than steel. Her rage burned not with the hot fire of her mother and brother, but with the chill of a thousand winters. Her eyes blaze ice-cold and she holds a hand out to Donald. He takes it and they run.

They run and run until their lungs burn and their legs are sore and Donald isn't sure where they are and he doesn't think it matters. There are trees surrounding them, dark foliage cradling the Duck twins like old friends and Donald screams. He screams and he shouts and he rages against the world with a voice that isn't like his sister's or his friend's or any duck in Duckburg.

When he's done, he collapses under the shade of a large oak tree, feeling at once too old and too young. Della drops to the earth beside him, her head fitting perfectly in the crook of his neck, her arms winding around him. It's warm and comfortable. Donald lets his sister comfort him, nuzzling into her feathers and squeezing his eyes shut tight.

"I can't Della," he croaks in his stupid, garbled voice. "I can't."

"It's okay," she immediately assures him, holding him so tight he can't fall apart. She understands him, she's always understood him, and it doesn't matter how garbled his voice gets, how much squawk his tone takes on.

"We'll find a way."

And they do, because they are the Duck twins. Donald goes to speech therapy. It helps, but only a little. What really helps is the ASL book Della checks out from the library. They practice together, this adventure as much Della's as it is Donald's. Family sticks together, and Della and Donald are more DellaandDonald, DonaldandDella, the Duck Twins, then they are anything else.

They learn ASL and Donald signs his final English tests with a poetic accuracy that nearly brings the translator to tears.

DonaldandDella are seven years old and family is more than enough. 

DonaldandDella Duck are nine years old when Gladstone Gander utters the words "bad luck duck."

Gladstone is eight years old and a sporadic figure in the Duck household. Aunt Daphne blows through town with her usual pomp and circumstance, blonde hair angelic, nearly divine in the grime that is the Duck farm. She giggles and laughs, and Hortense banishes herself to the edges of the farm for the duration of the visit.

"Don't you like Aunt Daphne?" Della asked one day long ago.

"No," their mother replied honestly, dragging a hoe through the ground with enough force to break through the frost-hardened dirt.

"But she's papa's sister."

"Aye." The hoe hits the ground with less force this time, scrapping against the frozen upturned earth as their mother's face grows distant.

"And family sticks together, right?" Donald asked, his fingers entwined with his sisters.

"Aye, son, they do." Matilda sighed, her eyes on the horizon, seeing something the twins couldn't understand. She stood for a long moment in the cold early spring breeze. "Alright, let me finish this row and I'll come in and . . . and your Aunt Daphne and I will cook a big dinner, how's that?"

So, Hortense accepted her sister-in-law . . . in small doses. Donald and Della never paid it much mind, too excited tousling with another duckling their age. Gladstone might wear stiffer clothes than the twins, and was less prone to running through the forest or jumping into the creek with the same reckless abandon as his cousins, but he was family and family stuck together.

"Come on, Glady, we found an awesome new creek to explore." Della pounces on their cousin the second the golden duck crosses the threshold of the farm, wrapping an excited arm around the gander and whirling him around the room.

"Donney and I have been waiting all week to explore it, what do you say?"

He thinks about it long enough that Della punches his arm and Donald threatens to tackle him, before relents with a childish laugh of glee as the twins sweep him along on their newest adventure.

"Watch out for the rocks, they're super slippery," Della calls as they dance around the bank of a bubbling brook. It formed with the thawing of the winter, snaking wisp-like through the forest behind the farm and the children race along its side, eager to find where it would lead them.

"Ha," Gladstone snorts, hopping nimbly from one stone to the next. "I don't need to be careful; luck is on my side."

"Gladstone, for real, be careful!" Donald squawks as their cousin lands on the river-smoothed stone, wobbling as he loses traction.

"Whoops," Gladstone laughs, twisting in the air and Donald dives forward to catch him.

He misses, slipping on his own rock, and falls face-first into the icy embrace of the brook. He gasps despite himself when something hard pressing down on his back, forcing him deeper into the muddy bottom of the brook.

"Donald!"

He doesn't hear his sister shout his name, and he's too stunned to push himself back up. There's a moment of panic, of don't breath, can't breath, what to do—and then hands are grabbing his back and hauling him upright.

Donald hacks out mud and murky brook water, the cold spring air slicing through his wet feathers and chilling his very soul.

"Whoa there, Double D," Gladstone laughs, grinning at his cousin from the dry brook bank. He has one arm reached out, patting Donald on the back.

Donald blinks up at him then over to his side, where his sister sits in the brook with him, arms wrapped securely around his shoulders.

"Better watch your balance, but hey, thanks for giving me something to step on. I would have fallen in the brook if you hadn't swan dived first!" Gladstone laughs again while Donald shivers in the near-freezing waters of the brook.

"Guess it's just my luck." Gladstone winks at them.

"Aw, phooey," Donald forces out from chattering bills and lets his sister help him out of the brook.

He falls three more times on the slippery bank of the brook, landing each time with all the grace and pomp of a drowned rat, a flailing whirl of silt-slicked features and angry limbs. Gladstone finds an abandoned coat halfway through the journey, inexplicitly dry despite the onset of the rainy season and untouched by the elements.

"There ya go, Double D," Gladstone chuckles as he graciously lets Della throw the coat around her drenched brother. "Hey, you know, if I'm the lucky duck, then you gotta be the bad luck duck."

Donald tackles his cousin, managing to roll his way right back into the brook and ruin his newly acquired coat while Gladstone finds a twenty-dollar bill sticking in the grass.

DonaldandDella are nine years old, and Donald looks in the mirror at feathers so caked with mud it will take weeks to clean and a cut above his left eye, wondering if he is, in fact, a bad luck duck.

DonaldandDella are eleven years old when their father buries his sister.

The funeral is short, for all the attendance is vast. Aunt Daphne was beloved by many and admired by even more. Hortense stands guard at the door, arms crossed and face fierce, to stop any from disturbing her grieving husband and family. Aunt Matilda stands in front, an arm wrapped protectively around Gladstone as though she can save him from the inexplicable tragedy of orphanhood at such a young age.

"You're not my aunt," Gladstone had said, not in malice but in the lost, confused voice of a newly orphaned child whose world had been turned upside down.

"I am now," Aunt Matilda promised. "And family protects family."

Donald and Della stand on either side of their father, clutching his hands and pressing against his side. Donald thinks they are the only thing that keeps him standing as he buries his only sister. Della looks around their father at Donald, and they stretch their arms out enough to hold both their father and each other. Donald lays his head over his father's heart and closes his fingers around his sister's. It's not enough to soothe the aching pain but it brings a level of comfort to the grieving ducks.

The funeral is over and their aunt is laid to rest but the Duck family remains. Hortense joins her husband and children, her chin rests in the crook of Quackmore's neck as she holds them from behind, an arm around each of their children. Donald isn't sure when he arrived, only that when Aunt Matilda finally reached forward to gently guide the grieving orphan away from the grave, he was there.

Scrooge McDuck stood half a dozen paces behind the grieving family. He looked exactly the same as when the twins saw him last, down to the brown spats upon his feet and the golden cane held between his fingers. Scrooge stared at the Duck family and the Ducks stared back.

"Why you, you—" Hortense breaks the spell first, jerking away from her family and throwing her arms wide as though to hide them from her brother's view. "Ye dirty rotten, guid fur naethin'—! Who dae ye think ye ur? Efter aw thes' time?"

Hortense advances on the specter, fists raised. Scrooge drops his cane. Della and Donald watch in stunned silence as it bounces in the soft dirt, rolling away from its stingy, diligent owner. They want to run to their mother, to shield her, protect her, help her, but they are frozen to the spot. Hortense raises her arms and Scrooge holds out his own.

Donald expects blows to rain, expects shouts to pierce the sacred bubble of mourning, for their world to crumble down around them.

It doesn't.

Scrooge opens his arms and Hortense falls into them, weeping.

"Ah hae ye, lass. Ah hae ye," Scrooge whispers, wrapping his arms around Hortense Duck as the pair fall to the floor.

Hortense makes no reply, clutching at her brother like a duck drowning, her fingers curling into his feathers so tightly she must pull a few out. She weeps like a child and her brother holds her fast. Scrooge cups the back of her head and looks up to where Aunt Matilda stands, frozen as though struck.

"Matilda," he whispers and it breaks the spell. Aunt Matilda scopes Gladstone up in her arms and closes the distances between herself and her siblings. She curls up in the spot between her sister and brother, holding Gladstone in the center of the three, and begins to weep alongside Hortense.

"Aye, now lasses, aye now."

Donald doesn't know how long they stand there, clinging to each other. When they finally break away, Scrooge keeps a fast hold on both his sisters, hands digging into their own. Gladstone is in Aunt Matilda's arms, his arms around her neck.

"Gladstone," Aunt Matilda says, her voice no more than a whisper. "This is your Uncle Scrooge."

Della and Donald look up at Quackmore. Their father is pale and he stares back at them with a fathomless expression as the McDuck clan inches closes.

"Quackmore . . . I'm sorry," Scrooge says to his sisterless brother-in-law as he clings to his own sisters with all his might.

Quackmore understands.

Donald looks at Della, at her snowy feathers Grandma Duck methodically cleaned this morning, at her eyes that were glued to her twin's face, roaming over every feather as though terrified he would disappear. Donald looks at Della and thinks he understands too.

"Children," Quackmore says in a voice that trembles only just so that his wife and children are the only ones who discern it. "Children, say hello to your Uncle Scrooge."

"Hello Uncle Scrooge," DonaldandDella say.

Uncle Scrooge's eyes are obscured by his spectacles but Donald will swear until the day he dies that a tear escaped the miser's eye that day.

"Hello lassie, laddie."

The Duck Twins have an Uncle Scrooge once more.

Hortense and Quackmore tuck their children in that, despite the pair being far too old for such frivolities, and the twins allow themselves to be fussed over. Donald lies in bed, blanket pulled up to his chin, but does not sleep. He listens to the familiar creeks of the farmhouse, the wind as it breaks against the rafters. Down the hall, Quackmore is crying. The sound is so soft it is almost missed by attentive ears, but the farmhouse is quiet that night and the children listen with an intensity that brings Quackmore Duck's misery to their ears. Hortense remains silent, but Donald can see her, kneeling on the floor at her husband's side, holding him together as the twins had at the funeral as he weeps.

Donald slides out from under his covers. He pads his way to the door, slipping through like a brook through the soil. He reaches for Della's door, and isn't surprised when it opens before he can reach it. Della Duck stares at her twin in the doorway for half a heartbeat, as unsurprised to see him as he her. She reaches a hand out. Donald takes it and lets his sister pull him into her bedroom, the door closing soundlessly behind them.

DonaldandDella curl up on her bed, arms around each other until they're not sure where Della ends and Donald begins. They haven't nestled since they were ducklings, eleven-year-olds were too old for such nonsense, but tonight is different. Tonight, they wrap themselves in the familiar embrace of childhood and safety, clinging to each other as rafts on unruly shores.

"Don't you dare," Della begins, her voice shaking. "Don't you dare leave me."

Donald feels her words as much as heard them, each syllable buzzing against his feathers. "Don't you dare make me bury you," he tells her in a voice that trembles to match.

"If you . . . " Della can't bring herself to say the word. "I'll come down to Hades myself and drag you back kicking and screaming."

"If you lock yourself away, I'll hunt you down and drag you back kicking and screaming," Donald vows.

"Why did he come back?" Della's breath is ice as she remembers the phantom who appeared earlier that day. "After all these, years, why didn't he come back sooner?"

"I don't know." How could anyone throw away their mom? Their Aunt Matilda?

"Do you really think he's changed?"

Donald thinks of the golden tipped cane that carelessly rolled out of their uncle's arms so he could hold his sisters instead. "No idea."

"I'll never leave you for treasure," Della promises. "Or fame or fortune. None of it matters more than family."

She doesn't ask him to pledge the same, her words as much his as they are hers. She speaks for him and they both agree.

"DonaldandDella," Donald whispers back.

"DellaandDonald."

DonaldandDella are eleven years old and they have an Uncle Scrooge again, but more importantly they have each other.

Donald and Della are twelve years old when all they have is each other.

Hortense and Quackmore Duck will never see their twins turn thirteen. A car accident cuts their lives short, winks out the youngest of the McDuck clan with a bang that is only partially literal.

Della and Donald are in the backseat. Donald is sick. He has a fever of 103, his feathers stick together with sweat and he doesn't hear the accident. His body feels weightless, his mind free of thought. It's pleasant. For a moment, he thinks he hears his father calling to him, a hand on his cheek loving and warm. He will swear that Hortense smiled at him, kissed her sweet boy and pushed him back to Della.

He wakes up in the hospital. He knows even before his eyes crack open that Della is beside him. Against the wishes of the doctors, Della has climbed into the bed beside him, her arms wrapped protectively around him, her chin atop his head. It's hard to be afraid with Della curled beside him; Donald is confused when he spots the figures next to the bed. His brain works slowly, addled by the broken fever and a concussion he has yet to recognize.

Uncle Scrooge is at his bedside.

The older duck sits with his shoulders hunched, the golden tipped cane gripped tightly between his hands. He looks terrible, like he hasn't slept in weeks. Aunt Matilda is on his other side. Their mother's sister has managed to curl herself into the plastic hospital chair, one hand gripping Della's hand. She is the one who notices Donald is awake.

"Donney," she gasps and three pairs of eyes are on him.

Della doesn't lift her head up to look down at him as he expects her too. Instead, she tightens her grip on her twin, constricting around him like a snake bent on its prey as the adults hover over them.

"How . . . how do you feel?" Aunt Matilda asks.

Nobody tells him that night. He can't understand why his parents aren't there to comfort him but the words get caught in his throat worse than when he was a duckling so he turns to Della, pleading for her to answer his unasked question. But his sister won't look at him, tucked into his side like a silent shadow.

Uncle Scrooge is the one who tells him.

"Ah lad," Scrooge whispers. "Do you remember the accident?"

Accident?

"It was a dream."

"Nae laddie, it wasn't."

So their lives come crumbling down. DellaandDonald, DonaldandDella, the Duck Twins, the inseparable two . . . the orphans.

For the second time, they watch as someone buries their sister. Only this time it isn't just somebody else's sister, it's their mother. And their father. Their loyal parents, who tucked them in at night and taught them how to hoe the land, who held them in their loving arms and sang on stormy nights to keep the monsters at bay. Hortense Duck whose temper rivaled none and whose love exceeded even the bounds of her rage; Quackmore Duck with a temper and heart to match, who never shied away from hardship and gave to his family all that he had.

Hortense and Quackmore Duck are dead, and Donald and Della are left behind to pick up the pieces.

"We'll have to sell the farm, who will maintain it?" Eider Duck says with a pained sigh. "I have my own farm, I can't maintain them both."

"We could—"

"No Ma, that would be too much for you and Pa."

"We could take the children," Grandma Duck tries again.

"A farm and two children?" The voice is kind. "Won't that be too much for you in your age?

"They're my grandchildren—"

"I know, I'm not trying—"

"We'll move into the city if that's what it takes—"

"And leave the farm behind? Do you have enough to retire—"

"I can take them—"

"Matilda—"

"They're my sister's babies, I'll take them."

"With Gladstone? I know you mean well Matilda, but you already have one grieving orphan. We don't want Gladstone to feel misplaced or that his pain is less valid because the twins also lost their parents."

"Ah will take them."

Silence. Donald looks up from his hiding place, tucked into the corner of the house with Della as they listen in to the adults decide their fate. They know that voice, the accent painfully similar to the one they will never hear again.

"Scrooge—"

"Ah live in the area, mah house isnae far. They can go to the same school, be around their friends. Their grandparents won't be far, I can hire somebody to watch the farm." There were the beginnings of objections but Scrooge cut them off. "Ah have the money for them."

Della hiccups into Donald's neck. Donald decides he doesn't want to hear anymore.

"Let's go to bed," he says. Della doesn't fight him so the pair creep along the silent halls of their home (is it their home anymore?). Like the night when their aunt died, the twins do not separate but curl beside one another in Della's too small bed.

The air is suffocating, the sound of strangers echoing through the halls. A draft perfuses through the paneling of the farmhouse, sneaking into the bedroom of the children, but the twins don't feel the cold, too wrapped up in the emptiness inside them. Their parents are gone. Their parents are gone.

"They were taking me to the hospital," Donald breaks the silence long after the adults have fallen silent. The words weigh heavily on his tongue, falling through his beak in tangled up knots but Della understands him. She nearly tugs out his feathers as she shakes her head.

"You were sick, Donnie," she refutes, pushing against the guilt that has steadily risen in her brother since Uncle Scrooge uttered those terrible words. "You were sick, Donnie."

"I should've—"

"The other car hit us, Donnie, they hit us—"

Donald lets his sister's words wash over him, but for once they are not a soothing balm on his soul but meaningless dribble that slide past him. He lets his sister hold him close as their world falls apart around them, his cousin's old words coming back to haunt him: bad luck duck.

DonaldandDella are twelve years old, and their parents are dead.

Donald and Della are thirteen years old when they forgive their uncle.

The McDuck manor overlooks Duckburg. Uncle Scrooge sits across from the Duck twins in the back of his limousine as a driver pulls into the gated yard of their new home. Della presses against Donald's side despite the spacious arrangement of the vehicle, her fingers entwined with her twins'. Della looks out the window as they drive up to the doors of the mansion, but Donald keeps staring ahead. He doesn't care about the mansion, the splendor of the hedges or the golden statues. They pale in comparison to the rolling fields of the farm, the splendor of winding brooks and green grass. Of his mother's warm smile and his father's deep laugh.

His heart aches. He wants to go home, but the only home he has left sits beside him. His heart aches for things he can never have back (bad luck duck). Scrooge climbs out of the vehicle. Donald only follows suit at the gentle tugging from his sister. His body moves but Donald feels detached, like somebody else is in control, somebody else is putting one foot in front of the other as servants flutter around the car, picking up the twin's suitcases. Della grips his hand with both of hers and they follow Uncle Scrooge up the steps to the McDuck Manor.

A tall half-balding dog greets them. ("Children this is Duckworth. If you need anything, you just let him know.")

"This is mah room," Uncle Scrooge tells them as they walk down a long, dark hall filled with massive tapestries larger than the three ducks combined and cold artifacts sealed behind heavy-glass enclosures. There is nothing earthy or warm about the carpet under their feet.

"And these will be your rooms, when you're here of course, you'll still have your rooms back at the farm," Uncle Scrooge talks quickly, the words running into each other as he stops at twin doors adjacent to his own.

Donald supposes it makes sense to give them each their own room—after all they each claimed separate spaces in the farmhouse. The sight of the separate doors, however, sends a chill of terror up his spine that seals his throat shut tight and makes his knees weak. Della can't leave him, she can't, he can't bear the thought of being in the cold, wide room all by himself, he wants to go home, where is home, Della, Della don't leave—

"What's th' matter? Did Ah say somethin'?" Uncle Scrooge sounds panicked as he stares at his sister's children with wide eyes and it's only then that Donald realizes his sister is crying.

"I'm here," Donald promises. "Della, I'm here."

Uncle Scrooge's brow furrows at the mangled noises that escape his nephew's beak, and Donald feels like an alienated seven-year-old again, with a teacher who doesn't care enough to work with the different kid, and his mother is shouting down the phone—

Donald's hands tremble and Della is defensive at once.

"Ah, could ya repeat that lad—" Uncle Scrooge asks.

"No," Della snaps and pulls Donald into the room on the right.

The room is large, larger than even their parent's room back at the farm (and oh does that make his heart ache, thinking of home and parents and a time when the world was right.) The bed is tucked into the far corner of the room, it's plumage large enough to fit three ducklings; across the way is a dresser twice the twin's height. The rest of the room is barren.

"It's ah, a little bare," their uncle coughs, hovering in the doorway as the twins take in the scene. "Ye can fill it with yer things, and we can go shopping if—"

"It's fine," Della interrupts, her words short and cold, and their uncle grips his cane until his knuckles turn white.

"Oh… good. I'll just ah, let you settle in then."

"Thanks." Della's answer holds the same frost as her first reply, her fingers digging into Donald's.

Uncle Scrooge hesitates in the doorway a moment longer, but neither twin turns around or makes any notice of him. Eventually, he leaves the pair and his footsteps echo loudly in the empty hall. Della is shaking, her chest heaving as she stares sightlessly at the bed.

"I want to go home," Della says.

"Is it home without . . ." Donald can't bring himself to finish the sentence.

"He left Mom," Della whispers, tears gathering in her eyes as she trembles, with rage or with grief Donald can't tell. "Money is more important to him than family."

She casts a scornful look about the barren room. Donald watches their shadows on the wall and gives little thought to the stranger who walks away from his family once more.

"I'm tired." Donald feels the words more than he says them.

There's a whole mansion around them, filled with treasures and secrets from every corner of the globe. Their mother always promised to bring them here, to explore to their adventurous heart's content after their uncle waltzed back into their lives. Now . . . now the idea of exploring feels hollow, like a betrayal.

The Duck twins climb into Della's too large bed, despite being too old for such bedsharing, and comforted each other with the familiarity of their beating hearts.

Their luggage is brought but neither twin moves. Dinner is called but neither twin is hungry. Their uncle peers in, but Della holds fast to her brother and Donald doesn't lift his head. Scrooge leaves two bowls of soup at their bedside.

"I want to go home," Della repeats and Donald just holds her tighter.

It's a quarter after one in the morning when they finally move. The soup is cold but they're not hungry anyway.

"Do . . . do you hear that?" Della's head turns towards the entrance, where Scrooge had left the door open.

". . . yes," Donald says after a moment of careful listening. The noise is soft, near inaudible, but clearly coming from the room across the hall.

The twins look at one another before creeping forward. Uncle Scrooge's door is cracked just enough that the ducklings outside can see the shadow of the older duck on the polished floor. He's holding something in his hands, leaning over the object.

"Ah'm sorry Hortense," their uncle whispers and his voice sounds all wrong, croaked and tight and almost like the older duck is . . . is crying.

"I shoulda come back sooner, I missed so much time with ya and now—" Scrooge makes another choked noise and the twins can't deny it anymore. He's crying.

"Ah . . . Ah I don't know what ta do with the children, Hortense, I don't know what Ah'm doin' but Ah couldn't let them take the kids away from me to. They're all Ah have lefta ya, and Ah didnae want to let that go."

Della's face crumbles. She glances at Donald and Donald is thrown back to a night all those months ago when their father lost his sister. The loss of their parents hangs between them like a tangible thing but the thought of losing Della. Donald can't bear the thought. He can't imagine leaving her behind, can't fathom not speaking to her for years, but the thought of there being no more Della – it's unbearable.

Donald doesn't realize he's crying until Della reaches out and touches his cheek, his tears falling on her hand.

They must make some noise, some sniffling or audible crying, because a moment later Scrooge McDuck is standing in the doorway. His eyes are red and a photograph is held against his side. He takes in the sight of the crying ducklings, his face exhausted and Donald is suddenly reminded that Scrooge was several years older than their mother.

"Ah laddie, lassie," he sighs and comes to his knees before the children.

Della is the one who closes the distance. Her hand falls away from Donald's face as she launches her herself into Scrooge's arms. Scrooge drops the photograph in surprise and Donald spots the fiery red hair of his mother. The sight makes him sob out loud and Della yanks him into the hug. Donald's head collides with his uncle's shoulder so hard his teeth chatter. Scrooge adjust, lifting his arm and pulling both of his sister's children closer.

Donald is tired, he's physically and mentally exhausted and decides that it's easier to accept the comfort than continue to fight against it. What good will it do him? His mom is dead. His dad is dead. His sister is here and he can't imagine her being anywhere but at his side.

Donald ducks his head into his uncle's shoulder and grabs his sister's hand tight. It's not the same, the embrace doesn't heal the gaping hole in their hearts, but for now, it's enough to stop the three ducks from falling apart.

DonaldandDella are thirteen years old, and their uncle builds a door between their rooms.


	2. Part 2

DellaandDonald are fourteen when they go on their first adventure.

Scrooge stays cooped up in the McDuck manor for two long months. The three fall into an unsteady rhythm, Scrooge fumbling as he tries on the responsible guardian role. He's terrible at it, but the twins' wounds are still fresh and their hearts soft so they let their uncle blunder without the sharp cruelty of teenage tongues. It helps that he puts in an honest effort to understand Donald, that they catch him practicing ASL by the firelight.

By the end of the two-month mark, it's obvious to all who observe that Scrooge McDuck is not a duck meant to sit still.

It comes quicker than the twins' thought: their uncle is leaving them.

"I nae leavin' you," Scrooge deflects as he prepares to leave them. The twins watch with their arms crossed and their stomachs cold as their uncle bustles around the mansion, gathering bags and maps and who knows what else.

"I'll only be gone a couple ay days," Scrooge tries to assure them.

"You're leaving us," Della accuses and she's fourteen, she shouldn't be crying over their flighty, gold-hungry uncle up and leaving them like they always knew he would, but there she is, blinking back tears.

She uncrosses her arms enough to pull Donald close, to link her arm through his as though to assure herself that he is still there. Donald squeezes her close and glares at his uncle, hating him for leaving them behind, hating himself for caring.

"Aye now, lassie, no," Scrooge says and he shifts from foot to foot. He glances at Della then looks away, staring at anything but her tear-filled eyes. "Aye, now, it's nae, it's nae _forever,_ I just came into possession of this map, ye see."

"A treasure map?" Donald asks and his voice drips with ghosts of the past.

In the end, Scrooge takes them with him. Against his better judgment, he says, but he takes them anyway. Donald likes to think he's finally learned not to leave his family behind.

The map turns out to be the key to discovering the lost city of Ithaquack. Suddenly, Della and Donald are running and dodging through an impossibly magical, ancient city because Scrooge has angered Zeus, king of the gods, and Della meets Donald's eyes as they crash through the golden city and she _laughs._ For the first time since their parent's deaths, Della Duck laughs and Donald takes her by the hand.

The Duck twins spring into action, half a step behind their uncle, no half a step before. Scrooge is fantastic, lightning in a slyness that Zeus can never dream of matching. Della designs the trap that creates enough confusion to buy their escape, and Donald goes hand to hand with an actual demigod to protect his family.

They escape by the skin of their teeth, Donald's hand in Della's, and Della's in Scrooge, and Donald Duck, too, laughs. He laughs and Della laughs, and Scrooge looks at them with so much fondness Donald might be tempted to call it love.

DellaandDonald are fourteen, and Della is daring and Donald is brave, and family is all they will ever need.

DonaldandDella are fifteen and maybe Donald isn't enough.

Their uncle takes them on adventures. It's great. It's exhilarating. It's . . .

"Della, look out!"

"Della, don't touch that we don't know—"

"Della you're gonna fall!"

"Della—"

"Oh, bless me bagpipes," Uncle Scrooge groans.

It's terrifying.

They're in the middle of an uncharted forest somewhere in South America. Their plane crashed a mile back. Their map is wrong. Della has climbed up the largest tree, her grin wild and blinding in the sunlight. There's a pit in Donald's stomach, hard and unpleasant. His hands tremble and he clasps them tight, trying to quell their quiver. Della swings from the branches overhead and all Donald hears is metal on metal and the silence of being left behind. He wants her to come down. He _needs_ her to come down.

"She'll break her—"

"Donald, enough lad."

"She needs to be—"

_"Donald—"_

Donald pauses. He doesn't tear his eyes away from his twin, swinging like a crazy duck-monkey but he does hesitate. His next call of warning to his reckless sister dies on his lips. His heart thumps painfully and he looks at his uncle, willing him to understand what Donald can't say.

"Lad, ya need to lighten up," Scrooge complains. "Della's fine, she's a natural. Ya need to stop worrying and squawking and running away all the time—this is _adventure_ lad, not some—"

"Whoops."

_Crack._

"Waah," Donald cries as the branch his sister was holding breaks and there's a flashing of white tumbling out of the sky.

Donald catches his sister before she can hit the ground, grabbing her and hardly believing when her feathers, warm and ruffled from the fall, press against his arms. His heart pounds so hard he can't believe the whole forest doesn't flutter with its rhythm.

"Whoa," Della laughs, arms wrapping around Donald's neck as she cheerfully points west. "Thanks, Donnie, I can always count on you. It's that way, Uncle, the temple is that way."

"Ah, what a good lass! Onward then."

Donald puts his sister down and she takes him by the hand as she leads on, their uncle's words echoing in his ears.

DellaandDonald are fifteen years old, and even as Donald goes hand in hand with his sister, he has the strangest feeling that he's being left behind.

DonaldandDella are sixteen when Uncle Scrooge picks a favorite.

Well. . . maybe Scrooge picked a favorite all those nights ago when Donald opened his mouth and an unintelligible cacophony rolled out while Della stood strong and brave before their strange uncle, or when they went on their first adventure and Della single-handedly defeated the Minaduck. Or when Della ran headfirst into danger, Donald wringing his hands behind her.

Donald isn't sure, but he knows that somewhere along the way . . . somewhere along the way, a bond had formed between his twin and uncle that did not extend to the unlucky duck.

They are one sheep short of the necessary hundred. The three ducks can feel the wrath of the Viking Hilda bearing down upon them; if they cannot break the spell that dooms Hilda's people, not only will the remaining Vikings die but their leader will undoubtedly drag the McDuck clan down with them. Donald clutches his stolen axe tight, his back pressing against his sister's. Della's teeth are barred, her own axe held hard and brave in her hand. None of the fear in Donald's heart shows on her face and that makes Donald tremble even harder. She will do something reckless if Uncle Scrooge does not think of something soon. Donald steals a desperate glance at their guardian, who is staring at the ninety-nine sheep in a furious sort of disappointment, as though by the mere force of his glare the sheep would multiply to the magic number needed for the ritual.

"Uncle Scrooge," Donald whispers as Della shifts behind him.

Scrooge looks up and meets Donald's eyes. That's all it takes. A moment later, Donald finds his uncle tugging him forward. Donald realizes what the older duck is going to do a second before he lands on the icy floor of the freezer. Donald does not resist, locking eyes with Della's startled ones.

It'll be okay, Donald thinks, as long as Della doesn't do anything stupid.

Della doesn't do anything stupid. The magic accepts Donald as the hundredth 'sheep' and the curse is broken. The Vikings rejoice and bless his uncle and sister with gifts.

"Ah, 'at wasnae so bad was it?" Uncle Scrooge laughs, tossing a golden coin in the sunlight, lounging back on the flagship of the McDuck fleet.

"I liked them, those Vikings are good folk," Della laughs too, adjusting the magic helmet Hilda gifted her. It looked dashing on her pearly feathers, regal and intimidating.

"Doin' alright there laddie?" Uncle Scrooge calls but makes no move to stand up or come over to his nephew.

Donald is at the helm of the boat – _tied_ to the helm of the boat to be more precise. The ritual worked its magic too well in his opinion, encasing the sheep and subsequently Donald as well in thick ice. Donald glares at his uncle form his icy entrapment, unable to even shiver due to his confinement.

"Super," Donald spits back, glaring up at the sun and wishing it would melt his cage faster. Scrooge and Della laugh, sharing warm smiles and chattering on about their latest adventure.

Donald stays at the helm of the boat, slowly melting in the late August sun. It takes the entire trip home and then some before he can break free. Duckworth comes to collect Donald once he's thawed enough to be pulled from the ice.

DonaldandDella are sixteen and Uncle Scrooge wraps an arm around Della's shoulders and leads her from the pier while her twin is still encased in ice, and it's okay. It's okay that Della is Uncle Scrooge's favorite because then maybe Donald doesn't have to be enough.

DonaldandDella are eighteen years old when Monteplumage's fearful monster chases Donald around the castle after a translation mishap, Uncle Scrooge scratching his head as he tries to recall the ancient language and Della follows the monster with a sword to free her brother.

DellaandDonald are eighteen years old when Uncle Scrooge makes tea with magic leaves that shrink Donald to the size of a mouse just to see what would happen.

DonaldandDella are eighteen years old when they wake Nostradogmus's vengeful ghost and Donald gets cursed, again.

DellaandDonald are eighteen years old when the Pumpkin People mistake Donald for their king and nearly sacrifice him to their god.

DonaldandDella are eighteen years old and Donald is kidnapped no less than seven times by Flint Glomgold, five by John D. Rockerduck, twice by the Beagle Boys, and three and a half times by Magica De Spell.

DellaandDonald are eighteen and Uncle Scrooge says they don't need to go to university when adventure awaits but he'll pay if they want to go anyway.

DonaldandDella are eighteen years old and Della applies and is accepted into no less than six universities and Donald—Donald applies to the Navy.

DonaldandDella are nineteen when they spend their first night apart.

That is, as most things are, a gross oversimplification. Donald had gone to Junior Woodchucks camp for a whole week every summer since he was eight. Della spent the night at countless friend's houses, gone on adventures with their uncle that Donald had stayed behind for. Yet the twins had never felt apart. Laying in the damp barracks a thousand miles from Duckburg, however, Donald has never felt so alone.

His chest aches with a fierce unnamed emptiness, a hollow echoing that reverberates against every bone in his body. So alone and so very far from home, it seems to sing. Donald Duck, the bad luck duck, the second best. The unwanted twin.

Some nights the aching grows so terrible, the emptiness so wide, that all Donald can do is curl his head between his knees, wrapping his arms around his center least he falls apart into the resounding desolation of his soul.

Who knew that breaking away would hurt so bad?

Donald isn't sure what was worse, the cold send-off or the silence that followed his departure. Neither Scrooge nor Della sent him off that late summer morning. Della locked herself in her room. She hadn't spoken a word to him in the last three weeks before he left, and their sparse conversations prior to that time were terse and explosive.

_You promised you'd never leave me!_

_I'm not_ leaving _you—_

_You are! You are, sweeping away and abandoning me like you swore you never would—_

And she couldn't understand, couldn't fathom the hole in his heart.

_You already abandoned me_ , he wanted to cry back. _You've run ahead with Scrooge and left this hole in my heart and I don't know how to fix it, I don't know where I belong anymore, I don't know who I am anymore, Della, please, understand, I don't know who Donald Duck_ is _anymore._

Uncle Scrooge was vocal in his displeasure until the very last moment.

_Ye ur makin' a mistake._

Donald was always making mistakes.

_You're throwin' yer life awa'! What good is a life in th' Navy? What are ye gonnae do? Sit aroond an' watch boats aw day. Pah! There's nae glory in that._

Donald stopped going on adventures altogether.

_You're abandonin' yer family._

Maybe he was. Maybe they abandoned him first. Maybe the bad luck festered inside him until it turned him rotten to the core.

He had to go. Donald couldn't stay in the McDuck manor any longer. He wasn't Donald Duck, the Adventurer Extraordinaire. He was Donald Duck the Screw-Up, the Temperamental, the Coward.

The Bad Luck Duck.

He's been at training for two months. Neither his sister nor his uncle has written. Donald writes letters that never see the inside of an envelope. They never see completion either. He feels like the seven-year-old duckling who couldn't make his teacher understand that the words just _wouldn't—couldn't—come._

The words won't come this time either.

DellaandDonald are nineteen years old, and Donald doesn't know what that means anymore.

Donald and Della are twenty when the Navy cadets are sent out on their first mission at sea.

Uno Ducklair might be twenty-one, but Donald isn't sure if he believes the duck or not.

Uno Ducklair is an ensign on the same ship as Donald (the _USS Walt_ – and Donald contemplates for weeks whether or not to update his sister and uncle on his deployment before chickening out). Uno is everything Donald isn't – tall, poised, sophisticated, and unearthly intelligent.

He is also incredibly _weird_.

Like a robot, crewmen whisper, shooting the duck in question distrustful looks.

Donald didn't purposefully try to befriend the guy. He understands that being the temperamental duck with a speech impediment already makes him an easy target for peers and readily dismissed by superiors; he isn't _purposefully_ trying to make things worse by befriending the duck that can recite pie to the nth degree.

He befriends Uno Ducklair anyway.

It's the end of a sixteen-hour shift, which is in and of itself the end of _five_ sixteen-hour shifts. Donald is tired and hungry and homesick for something he can't explain, and his sister hasn't spoken to him in over four months, and his beak opens without permission from his brain:

"Hey, lay off him won't ya?"

A trio of bulky high school dropouts with a spare brain cell between the three of them have cornered Uno as the tall duck is leaving the lab. Uno doesn't so much as blink at the insults they hurl, at the lewd insinuations and cruel taunts. The jeers stop as Donald's interjection.

"What did you say?" the largest of the brutes asks, blinking down at Donald.

He stands at least a whole head taller than Donald, large and mean and stupid. The worst combination, Uncle Scrooge would say. The thought of his uncle stirs up a confusion concoction of emotions in Donald; longing and homesickness, anger and defiance, and he doesn't have enough food in his stomach to weather the churning emotional turmoil.

"Can't understand a word he says, I don't think he's speaking English," one of the other brutes say, with an ugly smashed-in face that reminds Donald of the Beagle Boys.

"He's speaking English, he's just too stupid to know how it sounds," the last one gawks and they all laugh at him.

"I said lay off him," Donald seethes, projecting his voice louder as though it will compensate for his garbled speech.

"Quack, quack, quack, somebody needs to go back to elementary school, nobody taught this fool to talk."

Donald's hands ball into fists, but the voice is in the back of his head that sounds an awful lot like Duckworth reminds him that the three cadets are all larger than him, stronger than him, walk away, walk away now before it gets worse, Uno can pick his own battles.

"Yeah, someone ought to find his poor ma and put her out of her misery for having such an embarrassment of a son—"

Donald loses his temper.

Uno has to drag Donald off the unlucky trio.

"Waaack, let me go, let me go," Donald rages, pounding his fists against Uno's arms as the lanky duck drags him away from the scene.

The three sailors will need to see the nurse, each sporting a spectacular array of bruises and they actually flinch as Donald surges against Uno, almost breaking free. But the scientist/engineering/whatever is deceptively strong for his thin frame and holds fast to the struggling duck.

"You'll get punished," Uno says sternly, not even sounding out of breath as he drags Donald down the hall. "You could get discharged."

"I don't care, I don't care, let me go, let me go!"

Uno doesn't let go. He drags Donald halfway across the ship, the latter screaming and raving the whole time, and locks him in Uno's private quarters when it becomes apparent Donald isn't about to calm down any time soon. Donald doesn't know why Uno gets his own private quarters but the older duck sits firmly before the door with his arms crossed and Donald finally concedes defeat.

"That," Uno says after Donald throws himself onto the uncomfortable ship bed, squawking and cursing every deity he knows. "That was very unusual behavior."

"Stuff it, Green," Donald snaps, gathering the rock-hard pillow and stuffing it under his chin, glaring moodily at the wall.

"I did not need your interference."

"You're welcome, you ungrateful twig."

"If caught, you would be severely punished."

"I said can it, Long Legs."

Uno cocks his head to the side, studying Donald like one might an interesting artifact in a museum or a physics problem in a school book.

"You throw your punches wrong."

"Waaack, what'd'ya mean I throw my punches wrong?" Donald objects indignantly. He's fought monsters and demons and ancient curses and lost his temper on every single one of them. Donald Duck may not know much, but he knows how to throw a punch.

"Your fingers, you don't protect them correctly. That's why your hand hurts so much and you almost broke your thumb. Here, let me show you."

And so Uno Ducklair shows Donald how to throw a punch without hurting himself and Donald teaches him how to cheat at cards. ("This is not ethical." "No, that's the point.")

It doesn't occur to Donald until much later (an embarrassingly long later) that Uno never once has trouble understanding him. Like Della, he seems attuned to Donald in a way that defies logic (and makes something warm grow in Donald's heart but also ache and if that makes sense Donald will eat his own hat.)

Uno is weird, but Donald also learns that he's devilishly mischievous when he's of a mind to be and his dry humor is wicked and sharp, and his loyalty is deeper than the sea. Donald spends nearly all his free time at the lanky duck's side, tagging along at the lab or tucked away in his private quarters.

It becomes a _thing._ Donald doesn't mean for it blossom into possibly the greatest friendship he'll ever have, but he wouldn't trade it for the world.

Donald and Della are twenty years old, and maybe friends are another kind of family too.

Della and Donald are twenty-one when the _USS Walt_ is bombed.

Donald is on deck when it happens. He remembers seeing the enemy ship. He remembers the feel of the ship as it lurched when the torpedo hit. He remembers thinking about Uno, working in the lab on the fourth floor of the ship.

Then the planes come and fire rains from the sky.

Everything else, well, he remembers the rest either too closely or not close enough.

The ship is on fire and taking on water. There is screaming, shouting. The other ship lines up to take another shot. The captain is dead. _They're going to sink us,_ Donald thinks.

The plan is stupid and reckless and not even a plan at all. Donald barks out orders and charts a course. For some reason, nobody stops him. There's blood on the wheel and too many bodies on the floor. The sound of bullets hitting the roof almost drowns out his calls.

He keeps the ship out of range of torpedoes. The gunners keep some of the planes at bay. The hull is still taking on water.

Donald runs the enemy ship aground. Airforce reinforcements arrive. The sailors on the enemy ship have nowhere to go. Some jump overboard in desperation. A chance bullet hits the enemy's boilers. The resulting explosion rocks the _USS Walt._ They are the last ship standing.

They're still taking on water.

Someone initiates emergency protocols. The fourth floor and below are sealed off. Donald is unconscious beneath the captain's chair, blissfully unaware. A bullet nicks his arm during the fray and the last thought he remembers before darkness claims him, is whispering Uno's name.

Della and Donald are twenty-one years old, and Uno Ducklair is dead.

Donald and Della are twenty-two when Donald is sent back home with a medal of honor and a diagnosis of PTSD.

Nobody is there to greet him when he leaves the hospital, purple heart tucked away in the box beneath his wing. He feels the absence like a knife through the heart, and he almost knows what that feels like now, the bullet the doctor's removed traveling so dangerously close.

(They didn't even know he'd been deployed. He never wrote them. Hadn't the hospital called? He was unconscious for four days and hospitalized for three weeks. Della was his next of kin. Surely, _surely . . ._ why hadn't they come?)

His best friend is dead.

There is no body, no burial, no funeral. He was probably sucked out of the cabin by the sudden decompression after the torpedo hit. His next of kin didn't want to be contacted. Uno never mentioned his family (Donald never told Uno about his family.)

His best friend is dead, and Donald doesn't even have a picture.

He takes a taxi to the McDuck manor.

"Sir Donald," Duckworth greets. "We did not expect you home. The Master and your sister are away. They have been gone almost four weeks now."

"Oh. That explains a lot," Donald says and he isn't sure if he's relieved or angry or . . . or empty. Duckworth tries to take his luggage but Donald brushes him aside, stepping inside the mansion.

His best friend is dead.

"Can they be called?"

"I have not tried, but I'm sure—"

"It's fine, Duckworth, it's fine. I know the way to my room, no need to show me up."

"Do you want me to take your bag, sir—"

Donald jerks away from Duckworth as though burned, clutching the box to his chest and spinning away from the faithful butler, heart pounding in his ears.

"Or not," Duckworth amends without batting an eye, as though Donald's extreme reaction is perfectly normal. His voice is slow, words steady. "I will not touch the box, Donald."

Donald stares at him, heart hammering wildly in his chest.

"Donald," Duckworth repeats. "I will not touch it, I swear."

"I-I—" Donald's eyes prick, hot and painful.

His best friend is dead.

He flees upstairs and Duckworth lets him run.

His bedroom is exactly as he left it. Well . . . almost exactly. Donald walks up to his bed and hesitates as his eyes take in the sight of a half-drank cup of water at his bedside, an indent in his pillow.

Della.

Donald isn't sure how his heart manages to continue beating when it feels like its shattering apart. Donald sets his box on the floor and climbs into bed. He lays his cheek in the indent left from his sister; he can smell her perfume, the leather from her hat, pine from the forest, and he wants to cry but no tears come.

Duckworth brings him dinner and leaves it beside the half-drank water when the duck in question makes no indication of moving. The food grows cold. Donald doesn't eat. He stares at the door on the opposite wall, and his heart imagines his sister bursting through in a whirl of feathers and anger, to shout at him, to pound her fists against his back for leaving, to hold him tight and keep the hole in his soul from tearing Donald in two.

Della is halfway across the world. Nobody bursts through the door that conjoins the twin's room.

_I'm sorry,_ Donald thinks. His best friend is dead, his sister hasn't talked to him in over a year, and Donald Duck is drowning on dry land.

Donald gets up and opens the door. There's a letter on Della's desk postmarked from the US Navy. There's a letter on Della's desk postmarked from the hospital. She never got either. Donald lays down on her bed.

_I'm sorry,_ he thinks again and falls asleep to the nostalgic smell of home and family. Donald leaves the next morning. The letter postmarked from the US Navy and the hospital are nothing more than ashes in the manor fireplace.

Donald and Della are twenty-two years old, and Duckburg don't feel like home anymore.

Della and Donald are twenty-three years old when they find each other again.

Donald doesn't know how he ended up in South America. He does not consciously choose to drift that far south any more than he consciously decides anything these days. He meets José Carioca and Panchito Pistoles. They might have been best friends in another life. He loves them well enough, but the memory of Uno and blood and boats taking on water are too strong. They drift apart. They write, but Donald doesn't stay.

He travels on.

The world is vast and colorful, but the vibrancy seems muted to the duck. He accidentally helps a country discover their lost city, stumbles upon the stolen gold of a poor village, returns a missing daughter to her family and they all try to reward him but Donald isn't Scrooge and the mere sight of gold causes his heart to ache and memories threaten to drown him. There are some nights when Donald feels he can't get enough air into his lungs. He's a little duckling again, except Della isn't there and there's a hole in the very fabric of his being where she belongs, and Uno is gone, and the boat is taking on water, and all he hears is the sound of metal on metal, and _your parents are gone,_ and everything hurts, Della, it hurts. (There are some days when Donald wishes he felt nothing, if only to gain a reprieve from the agony of it all.)

It's a new city, maybe a new country, Donald isn't sure. These things don't hold interest for him anymore. The villages greet him with smiles and joy, his hand is shaken by happy, upturned faces but their words fall on his ears without sound. He must have been to this country before. Maybe he'd even been to this city before. He tries for a smile but his feathers are crawling and all he wants to do is lay under the dark trees and hide away from the world. People won't stop touching him and his head is spinning, his temper simpers, bubbling just below the surface, and he can't do this, he needs everyone to step away, to leave him along, to—

"Donald?"

Donald freezes. The crowd parts to reveal the speaker and all the air is pulled from Donald Duck's lungs.

And she's there, standing at the edge of the village. She wears the loose tan outfit of their adventures, that ridiculous hat he bought her for Christmas all those years ago still perched atop her head. Her eyes, more familiar than the pair that stare back at Donald from the mirror, are wide and Donald's own eyes greedily soak in every feather on her face.

It's Della.

It's _Della._

"Della," he whispers and the space between them feels unbearable.

He doesn't remember moving, doesn't remember Della moving, yet she's there in his arms and he in hers. Donald grabs onto Della and Della grabs onto Donald, and everything else fades away. With his sister's tears on his shoulder, Donald can't for the life of him remember why he left, why he didn't write, why he didn't stay at the McDuck manor all those months ago.

Della and Donald are twenty-three years old, and it feels like coming home.

Donald and Della are twenty-four and they try to gather the pieces of their lives and make them fit once more.

Della takes Donald back to Duckburg. She calls it home and Donald rolls his eyes from the backseat of the SunChaser, his head on his sister's shoulder. Duckburg isn't home; Della is Donald's home. Donald lets her have it, let's her call the McDuck Manor home even though they both know it isn't true and falls asleep to the sound of his twin's heartbeat, strong and steady and a little too fast.

Uncle Scrooge is there too. He looks at Donald with eyes that are reminiscent of a night long ago, in a cemetery where amends were made. Maybe they can make amends here too.

They try. They make a good honest effort to encircle each other back into their lives.

It's rocky. Scrooge has hired a kooky inventory, a chicken by the name of Gyro Gearloose (a name which does not inspire confidence). Duckworth has retired. There's a whole system to the adventuring now. Della and Scrooge gather around the study, pouring over ancient scrolls, artifacts, cursed paraphernalia that will launch their newest adventure. The halls are filled with tapestries and trophies from far away lands, but Donald's room remains untouched. (Except . . . there is still an indent in his pillow when he returns that smells like leather and pine and Donald wants to cry).

Della reached out her hand and pulls Donald close as they pour over their scrolls, holding him fast by her side. They try but . . . but it's like trying to put together a puzzle that doesn't quite fit.

Some pieces are the same – old corners worn and familiar like Della bursting into his room too early on a Saturday morning, running through a forest along a bubbling spring, counting coins with Scrooge in the money bin. Worn but warm, familiar and comforting.

Then there are the new pieces, foreign and piercing edges that cut into Donald's consciousness like a physical punishment for his absence when Scrooge says something and Della laughs but Donald doesn't understand because he wasn't there. The ease with which niece and uncle move, collaborate, _breathe_ together, a second nature that Donald has fallen out of synch with. Those pieces slice across Donald's feathers, painful and sharp and hollowing.

Then there were the gaps, the missing pieces, the glaring hole of his absence upon the manor. The screams that tear silent from Donald's throat in the dead of the night, Uno's name on his tongue and the sound of gunfire in his ears. The way Donald's hands shake at loud noises, the way he jumps at unexpected contact (Gyro is not allowed to touch him, the chicken, for all his faults, learns this quickly and makes no comment). Donald sometimes forgets that he has people now, that he can't just wander off when the world becomes too much, the colors too bright, the sounds too loud, and it threatens to drown him, boats taking on water, Uno, Uno—but he can't just pack up his things and slip away. It doesn't work that way anymore and Scrooge stares at him in the kitchen one night, pressing a cup of tea into Donald's trembling hands, and Donald tries to swallow back the memories.

So the pieces don't fit neatly together like the two ducklings that used to know nothing more than DellaandDonald. There are some nights when Donald thinks it's hopeless. The insecurities of childhood rear their ugly heads and he almost packs his bag and disappears into the night.

Except he doesn't.

Donald lets his sister wake him up too early on Saturday mornings. Donald lets the jokes he doesn't understand fly over his head. Donald lets his uncle make him tea at three in the morning. Donald sits in the study pouring over ancient, cursed artifacts and sits in the back of the SunChaser, and goes on adventures, and smiles and laughs and tells jokes and tries to rebuild what he once thought lost. It's hard because the pieces don't all fit together and there are holes and gapes and sharp corners and memories that sting and memories that comfort, but family is worth the effect, _this_ family is worth the pain, _DellaandDonald_ are worth fighting for.

DonaldandDella are twenty-four years old, and they start to build something new.

DonaldandDella are twenty-five and, for the first time in twenty-five years, their family is getting bigger, not smaller.

"Triplets!" Scrooge stares at the eggs, eyes wide behind his spectacles.

"I'm going to be an uncle," Donald says, not quite believing it. Della looks proud as can be, her feathers pearly white in the sunshine as she brings the pram around, three beautiful, perfect eggs tucked safely inside.

"Uncle Donald," Della laughs, reaching out to pinch her twin's cheeks, then pats the ruffled feathers gently. "You'll be the best uncle in the world."

"Hey now." Scrooge tries to look offended, but his eyes are full of wonder and he reached one hand out towards the eggs. He stops just short of actually touching them. Even the gold of Ithaquack didn't make their uncle's eyes grow so large, his face so creased with wonder.

Della reached out and places his hand on the middle egg. Scrooge almost jerks back, his muscles quivering before he relaxes, fingers splaying out across the egg.

"Warm, healthy," he approves.

"These are your uncles, kids," Della introduced with a wide grin. "Uncle Scrooge and Uncle Donald. They'll be the best uncles you could ever hope to have."

"I'm going to be an uncle," Donald repeats, not quite believing it.

Della laughs, linking her arm through her twins'.

"Uncle Donald will look after you like he looks after your mom," Della promises the kids, pulling Donald in close so they're all huddled around the eggs. "And Uncle Scrooge will take you on crazy adventures. We're all going to be so happy together, just wait and see. We all can't wait to meet you."

"Aye lassie," Uncle Scrooge promises.

"The happiest." Donald grins at his sister, who is beaming bright enough to put the stars to shame.

And that . . . and that's the last happy memory DonaldandDella have. A ship is built, harsh words are spoken, tempers are lost, promises are broken. The Spear of Selene launches and Della Duck never returns.

DellaandDonald are twenty-five years old, and Della is lost to the stars.

Donald is twenty-six years old and he's the father of triplet ducklings.

Donald is twenty-six years old and the triplets have their first birthday.

Donald is twenty-six years old and the triplets take their first steps.

Donald is twenty-six years old and the triplets say their first words. ("Unca'," Huey says and Donald cries for twenty minutes straight in the privacy of the bathroom after he puts the boys to bed.)

Donald is twenty-six years old. He's the bad luck duck, the screw-up, the second-best, the temperamental explosion waiting to be set off.

Donald Duck is twenty-six years old and he'd trade anything to be the Duck trapped in the stars. It's not _right,_ it isn't _fair._ Della was the strong one, the brave one, the one who took life by the horns and never let go no matter how hard life bucked and throttled and turned. Della was the one who solved the riddle, who saved the day, who didn't screw up everything she'd ever touched. Della would never let her best friend die, would never abandon her family like Donald did. Della was the one ready to be a parent, ready to lead these three wonderful, beautiful, amazing boys into their bright futures.

Della Duck was a _part_ of him, DonaldandDella, DellaandDonald. The Duck twins. Two against the world, the other half of his soul. Della was his _home,_ his only guiding star. How could she be gone? He had just gotten her back. How could she leave him, when she promised one winter night so long along, hand in his, that she never would?

He's Uncle Scrooge, Donald realizes. He sits at the helm of the houseboat, an inadequate abode for the three growing ducklings sleeping inside but it's his own, it's a place to stay, a roof over their heads and for now it _has_ to be enough. _Donald_ has to be enough.

He's the Uncle Scrooge he promised Della he'd never be, Donald thinks as he looks up at the stars so high above the sea. The one who left only to return and lose what he foolishly left behind. Or maybe Della was Uncle Scrooge. Leaving him behind long before he made the choice to go. Leaving him behind when she climbed into the Spear, more concerned with adventure than the ducks on Earth who needed her.

Maybe they were both Uncle Scrooge.

Maybe neither were Uncle Scrooge.

Maybe life was more complicated than two ducklings curled together in the simple farmhouse with their loving parents could ever begin to comprehend.

All Donald knows is that Della is gone and this time there is no way to heal the gaping emptiness inside him. Della was gone. DonaldandDella were gone.

Donald is twenty-six years old, and he's one year older than Della will ever be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this even Duck Avenger verse? No, not really, it's just an excuse to write Uno and Donald together. Yes, Uno's android form looks like Odin because I can't picture him in human form any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse any mistakes with the Scottish accent, it's cobbled together from Don Rosa's dialogue and whatever Google suggested. I have no idea what timeline this is, mostly the reboot Ducktales with my favorite parts from Don Rosa, the original Ducktales, and some Duck Avenger timeline for the next part. There will only be two parts.


End file.
